


The Dark Fairy

by kalima



Category: Angel: the Series, Buffy the Vampire Slayer (TV)
Genre: Gen, poor mad Dru
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-10
Updated: 2020-10-10
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:41:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26933035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kalima/pseuds/kalima
Summary: Drusilla has returned to LA to start a family.
Kudos: 5





	The Dark Fairy

**Author's Note:**

> Season Five. Spike is solid. Angel is a hard-ass.   
> Almost finished work. Updates will be sporadic however. My apologies.

**_Angel_ **

_We’re going over the rooftops and down the fire escape ladders, through alleys and car parks, the usual hunt and chase – only it’s not and we both know it. Besides which, one of us is being really fucking noisy for a creature of the night._

_He’s doing it on purpose. All kinds of annoying shit. Jumping on those big garbage dumpsters you’re not supposed to play on or around. Hanging off a fire escape ladder by one arm and kind of swinging back and forth so the ladder rattles and creaks. Yapping away like a little dog you just want to kick, you know? Scrawny Chihuahua. Inflated sense of size and ferocity. Bark and bite at your heels and there you are, just walking along minding your own business. You want to kick it but you don’t because that would only make you look bad, kicking a little dog like that, and Spike is well aware of that factor, let me tell you._

_One swift kick —_

_Anyway, she’s my business, more than his. All this noise he’s making. Only delaying the inevitable. But that’s Spike for you. It’s all in the name he chose. Chihuahua with delusions of Pit Bull. Really wanna kick him. Kick him hard and send him flying. But I’m being Zen. Because I’m older and wiser and the bigger man…or something._

_No. God damn it! I_ am _the fucking Man, alright? The big boss. Head honcho. Pater- fucking-familias, and I’ll do what has to be done. The sooner he gets that through his head the better._

_I made her and I’ll unmake her._

***

**_Four days earlier_ **

****

Spike was pretty sure that the only people who actually walked in LA were the prostitutes on Santa Monica and Sunset. 

Oh, all sorts of people _ran_ in LA – for sport or exercise, for office, and occasionally, for their lives – but walking? That was best left to pros. People who _had_ to, in other words.

He wondered if Angel ever came here. Did this. Sat at a table with a drink and a smoke and counted how many times the same girl or boy walked by, all tarted up, wagging their tails, showing off the merchandise, what they knew, what they could do for you. The ones who looked cunning and mean, like they’d insult the size of your dick and you’d damn well like it. The ones who pretended to be frightened and helpless and new to the game, clutching their backpacks, hair a little too disheveled, lips a little too glossy, catching the eye of a passing motorist with a practiced limpid innocence. Angel _had_ to love the smell of West Hollywood. And for the same reasons Spike did. 

Angel probably avoided it like the plague. 

Although Spike suspected he should also avoid it, sometimes he just needed to be near it, walk around and be inside that heady perfume with its top notes of fashionable perversity, the Disney-esque pornutopia of heaven-knows-anything-goes commerce. Soul-patches and cigars. Hard liquor taken alfresco. Drugs, with a side of calculated abandon. You could get a tattoo, a piercing, a buttplug, a haircut, _and_ a latte, all from the same establishment. Plus, the music clubs. Definitely “of the good,” as a certain someone used to say. 

The bass notes, however, the blood deep, dark scents that drew him, those were in the nethers and folds of the streetwalkers. That almost Zen-like state of no hope, no future, no anything at all. 

“Get a whiff of that, boy,” old Angelus had told him the first time they’d gone hunting together. “That’s the smell o’ true hopelessness. The truffle-rarity of genuine, unloved-by-even-the Lord-God-Almighty _despair_.” And oh, how his nasty piggy eyes did sparkle and gleam as he snuffled in close to whisper, “Tastes even better than it smells.” And it did. Or so Spike recalled. He hadn’t sampled anything like it for quite some time. Even now, with the goods strutting back and forth, the scent was merely a phantom memory on his tongue. He’d kept to the shadows when he first started coming down here, doing _this_ , full of “ought to be ashamed, pathetic perv” feelings. But lately, like tonight, he took a window seat or an outside table where he could smoke and watch the parade in the open like every other perv. 

They might tell you they were happy, these promenading slaves to the cell phone. Sneer at any pretense of curiosity or concern. Fine and dandy, they were, and not at all afraid. Living for the moment was the only way to live. Better than flipping burgers. Besides, Sugar Daddy Prince Charming was in that luxury sedan just turning the corner at Vine. And _he_ had a Jacuzzi. And mountains of weed. The best blow. Best sound system. Champagne and imported chocolates, (cuz girlfriend don’t eat caviar). So fuck you very much for asking, are you a cop, hey gorgeous, me and my friend are running a midnight special on account of how fine you look tonight, you be the creamy Oreo middle, huh, what d’ya say? 

He usually said no. He’d said no to the girl in the pink velour, skin-tight, belly showing hoody who was now negotiating with someone far richer than he, if the limo at the curb were any indication. 

He picked up his cigarettes and lighter from the table and sighed. Half a pack of smokes given away between Santa Monica and Sunset, and he’d likely be hit up for the rest of ‘em before he made it to the car. Of course, if the smokes were all gone, he wouldn’t be tempted to light up when _in_ the car. And if he didn’t smoke in the car, Angel wouldn’t know which car he’d taken. He’d spent time in them all of course, just for the hell of it, to work his scent into the upholstery real good, but the Viper was Angel’s special favorite. Had such a hard-on for the Viper, the old sod, made him near happy enough to lose his soul he loved that car so damned much. So, in a way, all things considered, Spike was actually saving Angel’s nearest and dearest by keeping him from a moment of true happiness behind the wheel of his Viper.

Satisfied with this logic, he was just lighting another cigarette when, from the corner of his eye, he saw a hand extend from the back window of the limo, long fingers and blood black nails circling in and towards the eyes of the girl in the pink velour hoody. The deceptive, snaky languor, the sensuous movement made by those fingers shouldn’t have been detectable from so far away, yet he _knew_ that hand, he’d know it anywhere. And even though his mouth opened to yell “Fuck’s sake, don’t get in that car, Girl in Pink Velour Hoody!” his brain seized up, and by the time his legs would move Girl in Hoody was just a flash of leg disappearing into the back. By the time he’d reached the limo, the door was shutting. He could smell her, close and rich, his own mad girl, got a glimpse of bone white cheek and wild black eyes as her head whipped around, sensing him, then _seeing_ him before the inky window slid home, and the limo pulled away from the curb. 

Spike, like an idiot, watched it drive off, blinking at the license plate, thinking he ought to commit it to memory. But his mind was too full – icy numb with shoulds and coulds and have-to’s. 

***

**Big Boss Angel’s Office**. **Three days ago.**

“I believe…that is, I feel _certain_ this concerns Drusilla.” Wes looked up from his notes in the hopes that Angel would do him the courtesy of making brief eye-contact. 

“Certain, huh?” Angel’s pen stopped mid-signature at the mention of Drusilla then continued smoothly across the dotted line. Harmony Kendall, personal assistant semi-extraordinaire, stood by his side, quietly instructing him where to sign and where to initial. 

“Yes. Quite. The portents, the South American references, the appellation of ‘ _la fada negra’_ which, as you know, is Portuguese for—“

“Does it specifically say this _la fada_ , whatever she… _it_ is…will _be_ a vampire?”

“No, but—“

“Well, jeez, Wes, could be a migrating species of deadly butterfly for all we know.”

“ _We_ know damned well it’s not.”

“Killer butterflies?” Harmony interrupted. “Wow, they have killer everythings down there. I remember my mom was totally freaked about the killer bees. She made our gardener Manuel dig up all the rose bushes and she wouldn’t let us use the pool for like days and days—“ Both men shot her a look. “Um…initial here. And here.”

Angel bent to his task again. “Or could be just what it says, Wes. _La fada negra._ Evil fairy. A wish demon. Something along those lines.”

Wes tried not to sigh in exasperation. Failed. “I know it could be interpreted in that way. But there’s a passage here that refers to _La fada negra’s_ ‘army of the children of Eshu rising out of the land of the Great River.’ I’m reading that as Brazil. And, as the last verifiable sighting we had of Drusilla was in Brazil—“

“I’m telling you it _can’t_ be her.” 

It took every bit of strength Wes could muster to keep his voice steady. “Really? And what makes you so certain, Angel? Do you have some information that you haven’t shared with the rest of the class?”

Angel seemed to sense he was in danger of protesting too much. “I mean, she wouldn’t come back _here_ , you know. Not after the last time.”

“The fact that you didn’t– that you allowed Drusilla to escape the last time virtually guarantees she’ll return. To _you._ You _did_ sire her. She’ll always come back to you.” 

“We’re vampires, Wesley, not homing pigeons.”

Harmony giggled as she swept one document away and laid another before him.

“This,” Wes shook the photo-copied translations at Angel, “ _this_ is what you pay me to do. Interpret prophecy, auguries, and predictions. I have done so. In my considered opinion, l _a fada negra_ is not a species of butterfly from Brazil but rather a vampire named Drusilla. An unstable and highly dangerous vampire.”

“All right. Okay. Maybe. But even if you’re right, Drusilla’s easily distracted, and she doesn’t exactly travel well. Raising a tiny-tot army of darkness is pretty unlikely—” 

“Who’s raising an army, now?”

“Spike. Get out of my office,” Angel said. 

“Can’t. Need to parlay voo you.”

“Make an appointment with my secretary.”

“Oh, actually, he did,” Harmony said. “He’s your 4:45. I just penciled in Wesley in case Spike didn’t show. But … _surprise!_ ” 

“ _You_ made an appointment?”

“Yeah, well, you don’t take my calls.”

“He’s late,” Harm said, “but technically still your 4:45 to 5:15.” She smiled her patented Cali-girl smile and her bosom did that distracting perky-bouncy thing. “Well, okay then. Gotta run. Phones. Files. Stuff. TGIF, everybody!” 

On the way out she gave Spike a look which spoke volumes about doing favors for ingrates, asshats, and ex-boyfriends. But he was already sprawled on the leather sofa apparently overcome with ennui. The doors closed. 

“Perhaps we should consult with Spike on the likelihood of Drusilla’s return?” Wes said.

Spike sat up abruptly. “You already know about that?”

Wes shot Angel an accusatory gaze before slamming the sheaf of papers onto his desk. He stabbed at the stripes of yellow highlighter pen across the top page. “ _La Fada Negra_ _traz à tona_ _vapiros infantis do exército."_ He looked from one vampire to the other. "Really gentlemen. It’s rather straightforward.”


End file.
